The Son of Famine
by R for Rebel
Summary: Life in the time of 9:37 Dragon is like chess; every person a pawn, every thing the calculated move of someone else. Some pieces are conquered, some advance to claim blind victory. And sometimes, there are pawns that defy everything just to prove a point.
1. A Foreword by the Author

_An important foreword from the author:_

UGH GOD, LATE TO THE PARTY, I KNOW.

Anyway, hi everyone. It's been awhile, I know; I'm a horrible procrastinator, but unlike every other time I've sworn I was going to update regularly, THIS TIME WILL BE DIFFERENT, I SWEAR!

A little personal update: I got Dragon Age 2 about a month ago (hello, bandwagon) and have played it like a crazy woman ever since (which wasn't the smartest thing, since I got Dragon Age: Origins right after and played that…so then I had to import all of that and play through it again…you know how it goes). I really loved the intricate story and the whole shebang of DA II, including all the amazing characters and back stories and subplots and such.

More than anything, though, I loved Anders; there's something about his struggle, the amazing, horrific, tragic figure that he is, that made a romance with him almost freaking intoxicating. Unlike the other romances, Anders' is one that has a very deep crisis, and his background and relationships are so full to the brim with emotion and betrayal that I seriously could not _not_ go after him.

And for that, I have decided to write a story dedicated to him and his rogue lover and my male Hawke, Aaro.

I'm planning on updating every week to two weeks, unless I say otherwise. I'm not sure how long this story will go, but I have it planned for nine chapters so far. At most, I'll be updating up until the release of Dragon Age 3 (Maker permitting), so I hope to keep you all entertained with wonderful, angsty, magical FEELS until then.

There…is a small possibility that this will be moved to an M rating. I haven't decided yet if I want to detail sexual themes that might occur in the future; that said, there _will _be sexual themes_ implied_ throughout this tale, as well as kissing and the odd groping (oh Lawdy). If you haven't caught it already, this is a story about a _homosexual romance _between my male Hawke and Anders. If you're naïve or ignorant to such ideas, I would suggest you not take the risk in reading further than the next two _paragraphs_.

With all of my warnings having been said, I would also like to point out the time which my story begins. _The Son of Famine_ starts in Act 2, _after _Bethany has been lost (in this story, she's taken to the Circle) and _before_ the in-game quest, **All That Remains**. It will extend past the end of the in-game quest **The Last Straw**, and will more than likely continue until the beginning of Dragon Age 3, how everBioware decides to tie that into DA2. If you are looking for a walkthrough, you will not find it here; I will only skim over quests if I mention them in this story at all, and will only go into detail if it pertains _to the story_. Aaro will experience a flashback at least once per chapter, showing his choices and some of the ways the other characters change him, so the large segments of italicized text are memories of his past. I'm going for the general themes of 'love conquers all' and 'anyone can be forgiven' in this tale, so expect a lot of mother-truckin' FEELS to go on between all of the characters.

Besides all that, I hope you enjoy my tale of love, loss, and forgiveness. Enjoy with kisses!

~ RforRebel

P.S: I listened to one main song through most of these chapters, a song that I feel really captures the essence of Aaro and Anders' relationship; 'Drumming Song' by Florence + The Machine is my Aarders theme song, so if you'd like to look it up, I highly recommend it. Besides that, I'll also mention any other songs I listened to for specific chapters at the end with my end-of-chapter notes. C:

P.P.S: A few notes about my Hawke, so you can get a feel for his character going into this:

He's very nice and diplomatic, though it comes off a bit…rough; given his specialty, he's prone to pulling out the roguish charm when it suits him.

His name is pronounced like you were saying "arrow"; spelled like 'Aaro', it means "mountain of strength".

He likes to drink. A lot.

He loves his sister to an almost unhealthily degree.

He can be best described as looking like a manly, male version of Isabela. I'm not kidding. In-game, it's almost creepy; the only unique difference is that he has orange tattoos decorating his face.

Suffice to say, Aaro is pretty chummy with Isabela and Fenris, respectively. Varric and Aveline are like family to Hawke, and while he and Merril are close, they're rather strained on the whole 'blood magic' thing.)


	2. Chap 1: A Mystery Wrapped In An Enigma

_**The Son of Famine**__**, Chapter One: 'A Mystery Wrapped In An Enigma'**_

All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them.  
- Galileo Galilei

.:;:.:;:.:;:.

"_Bethany, you can't-"_

_Her eyes flashed as she fixed him with a venomous stare._

"_Watch me."_

_He reached a calloused hand for her shoulder, but she yanked away, leaning over their lifeless sibling._

"_Bethy, no-"_

"_I can do this."_

"…_Bethany?"_

"_I can do this, Brother."_

_The older man shook his head, closing his eyes against the sight of blood splashed at his feet._

"_He's gone."_

"_No. No, I can still-"_

_Her words were chocked by a small sob, and their mother leaned over the both of them, covering Carver and the young mage with her own body as if trying to shield them from the world._

"…_He died bravely, mother."_

"_I don't want a hero, I want my son!" Mother snapped at him, one hand smoothing Carver's dark black hair back from his tanned brow. She wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, a smear of blood tracked across her check._

"_How could you let him charge off like that? Your little brother, my little boy…"she whimpered sorrowfully. She looked up at the eldest Hawke sibling with an expression of pure contempt, one he wouldn't soon forget._

"_This is your fault," she spat at him._

He sits up with a choking gasp, cold sweat standing out on his bare back. He sits up in his bed, still panting, and shuts his eyes tight, trying to get the images of blood and the smell of death out of his head. His hands feel blindly among his covers, grasping for one of his knives, and it takes him a moment to realize the sheets are smooth and silky, not coarse or smelling of hay. He takes a deep, long breath, and then reopens his eyes to the dim light of his room.

It's quiet beside the crackle of the fire, and the white marble walls shine dimly back at the rogue as he glances dazedly about. He casts his whiskey colored eyes upwards and almost gags at the color of his canopy, the deep crimson turning his stomach in a knot. He stands up and begins pacing restlessly about, his eyes closed in an effort to calm himself down. It's not an easy task; the memories of his past haunt his dreams, and it can take hours to feel completely back in his own skin and not in the Wilds or the Deep Roads.

The tanned man stops in front of his desk and takes one more steadying breath, holding it in till his head hums and his lungs give an aching protest. He lets it escape through his nose, and then runs a trembling hand through his trimmed black hair, the short strands on the right side of his scalp flattened down at an awkward angle. He sighs, pauses, then rummages through the chest to his right, pulling out his daggers along with a leather vest.

He needs to get out of this house. It's smothering him, slowly but surely.

He takes the stairs by twos, his footfalls silent as he skips over the slightly uneven tiles in the foyer. He slides on the vest and does up the worn brass buttons outside in the safety of his doorway, realizing only moments too late that this particular vest use to be one of his father's. He looks down at himself and contemplates whether he should go back and change out of it, but the tired buzzing at the base of his skull is starting up again, the buzz he gets when he can feel himself slipping, so he decides against it.

He cuts through the Hightown market and winds his way into Lowtown. He's quick and quiet enough that the various thugs and ruffians seem to look over him, which is for the best; the buzzing is getting louder, and it's making his eye twitch.

The entrance to Darktown is, unsurprisingly, dark, and he has a spot of trouble finding his footing on the ladder down into the Undercity. A few dim lanterns mark the various decrepit doorways, but Aaro ignores them, stepping over various unconscious bodies and discarded objects as he winds his way through the maze of tunnels and sewage. A couple of Coterie give him a weary glance, but once they see his face, they nod, turning back to their quiet discussion; years in the Red Irons had found him strong, unlikely contacts, and having the Coterie in his pocket didn't hurt, especially these days.

He makes his way down a set of stairs and then up their adjacent twin, stepping nimbly over a rubble pile to stand in front of a pair of familiar doors. He stops and stares silently at the worn wood, the chill air swirling around him as the sounds of restless gulls and creaking metal float in from the harbor. He casts his eyes out at the docks in the distance, and the large, shining disk of a moon reflects off his irises, turning them a piercing, other-worldly yellow.

The buzzing has increased, and he takes another breath to push it back down before he knocks on the door gently.

There's a deathly silence that only the wind fills. He kicks a pebble with his booted foot and waits, the buzzing creeping up the back of his skull and settling behind his eyes.

After what feels like an eternity, he hears soft footfalls moving closer from inside. There's a pause, and then the grinding of various locks being undone fills the air, muffled only by the thick wood and rusted iron of the entrance. A moment passes, and then the door opens just a fraction, the dim light from within outlining a pair of pinched but soft hazel eyes. When said eyes settle on the man outside, they widen, and the door opens almost instantaneously, revealing a handsome young man of slight frame and dirty blonde hair.

The buzzing winks out of existence, leaving behind a dull, tender ache behind the rogue's left ear; Anders always helps him focus, even without knowing it.

"…Aaro?" the mage asks, his tone worried and a little tired sounding. He folds his pale arms across his bare chest, the chill night air swirling around him and into the doorway.

"I, um…I hope I didn't wake you," the man offers as a reply, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he gives the fair-haired individual in front of him a sheepish smirk.

"Saved me from pulling my hair out, actually. My manifesto won't write itself, though the Maker knows I've been doing my darnedest to make it do exactly that."

His pale hair shines hazily in the moonlight as he opens the door wider. There's a brisk pause as he stares at the other man, his emotions hidden by the dark.

"...You know, you don't need my permission to barge on in. By all means, barge away."

Aaro tugs at his vest subconsciously and smiles again, maneuvering around the other man and into the large room beyond him.

"Thanks Anders."

The mage nods, shutting the door behind him and redoing the locks one by one. When he turns back, he finds Hawke standing almost awkwardly over his dusty work space, glancing sidelong at the healer's various papers and mementos as if trying not to draw attention to himself. Anders smiles at the back of the rogue's head and goes to light a few lanterns, hoisting them up onto various hooks around his makeshift hospital.

"I'm assuming, from the lack of compliments and generally light banter, that you're_ not_ here in a fit of passion to ravish me while my guard is down," the mage jokes, stretching to hang a lamp on one of the rafters.

"Don't put it past me just yet. I'm a wolf in sheep's clothing," the other man laughs, picking up a scrap of paper and a piece of writing charcoal from the table.

"Well in that case, you can stop peeping at my notes and sit down somewhere. I want at least some fair warning if you're going to jump my bones."

Hawke chuckles again, slinging his knives off his shoulder before sitting down on a teetering high stool, and Anders follows his example moments later. Silence grows between the two before the mage clears his throat, uncorking an ink pot resting by his papers.

"…So."

"…So?"

Anders smiles softly and shuffles his journal pages.

"You know I'm all for having random visits in the middle of the night, but usually they involve someone bleeding to death or a sobbing woman. Sometimes both, on a good night."

Hawke smiles as he sweeps the graphite across his sheet of paper, glancing at the mage before looking back down.

"While I'm not either of those things, I'd like to assume I'm a step up from your usual clientele."

"You assume a lot," the healer chides with a smirk, setting aside a packet of notes before picking up another.

"Are you always this cheeky before dawn?"

"Only when I have good company," Anders confides with a suddenly serious air, his quill scratching away at his journal.

Aaro watches with a subconscious frown as Anders pens another set of thoughts into his manifesto, a drawn out silence extending between them as the quill scratches over bumped paper. When the healer takes notice of the rogue's silence, he glances at him, but the eldest Hawke looks away, afraid his eyes will betray his troubled mind.

They do anyway.

"…Are you okay?" Anders asks, his quill stilling over the dot of an 'i'.

"Not…entirely."

There is a hollow pause that impregnates the air, only broken when the rogue shifts in his seat, his frown deepening as he clears his throat softly. Anders sits back and calmly sets his quill in the ink, wiping his hands on his trousers as he carefully glances at the other man.

"Do you…want to talk about it?"

The dim light catches Aaro's eyes as they flicker around the clinic, the irises turning from a bright yellow to warm cider. He focuses in on the mage and pins him with a piercing look, full to the brim with questions and thoughts and unspoken feelings, but it's gone as soon as it has appeared, a darker one replacing its predecessor.

"Do you really want to hear it?"

The mage snorts in indignation, turning in his seat to face the rogue fully. Justice makes an offhanded remark on his forgotten manifesto, but the mage pushes it back, the thought becoming background noise.

"Of course. I asked, why wouldn't I want to hear it? I care about your…" The mage fumbles for words for a moment before lamely finishing, "…wellbeing."

"My _wellbeing_?" the other man teases, his dark frown falling away behind a fake, impish grin, "Anders, you flatterer; you'll make me blush."

The healer gives an exasperated sigh, but the curl of his lips suggests the opposite. "Maker's breath, Hawke, must you torture me? It's like I can't say a word without you turning it on me."

"Sorry. You know how I like to tease you."

"Obviously."

A semi-comfortable pause descends upon the pair, and it's almost maddening for the mage as the eldest Hawke stands to pace among the pillars of the room, but Anders waits, knowing it will all come out in time. Aaro stops suddenly in front of a broken cabinet and shifts through its contents, pulling out a dusty volume of amber liquor. Anders has only moments to stand and pull it out of the other man's hands before he swallows a mouthful. The mage scowls and holds the glass out of reach, leaning against the cupboard to block him from his other supplies.

"Don't touch my reserves. This is for patients, not handsy rogues."

Aaro runs a hand through his hair and chuckles, leaning into the other man's personal space with a sizzling gaze. Anders' scowl deepens, but he doesn't back down, even when the other man reaches for the bottle once more.

"No."

"Please?"

"Give me one good reason why I should hand over my last bottle of whiskey, simply because you ask."

"Because I'd share it with you, and then it'd make the part where I ravish you all the more easier."

The mage is taken aback, and it's enough of a surprise for the rogue to take the bottle back and uncap it, pouring the contents into his mouth. Anders blinks when it's offered to him, and he can't help but give a grudging smirk as he takes the weighty crystal into his hand and sips a bit himself.

"…You know, Justice doesn't let me get drunk anymore. I kind of miss it."

"Oh?" the brunette asks conversationally, taking the bottle from the mage and smiling, "That's a shame. More for me, though."

The mage chuckles as the rogue turns to lean next to him, holding himself languidly against the worn wood of the shelf. Aaro takes another sip of liquor before his demeanor turns somber and he sets the bottle down, rubbing another hand over his eyes. Another pause occurs (a pattern the mage is beginning to anticipate) before Aaro clears his throat, staring off into the middle of the room.

"…I had a…nightmare. About the Wilds."

Anders glances at him, worried; he knows what it's like, to have night terrors of the 'death-or-life' variety. He's spent many a night pacing his clinic in a cold sweat after a dream about the Deep Roads, trying to talk himself down from the frenzy of fear that would try to choke him. A small, forgotten part of the mage feels touched that the rogue would trust him in such a delicate state; the other man isn't known for wearing his emotions on his sleeve, but Anders can see the hard outer shell Aaro favors tucked away in favor of something more vulnerable, more breakable.

He savors the moment before he breaks it.

"…And Carver?"

The rogue gives a gentle sigh, folding his hands in front of him, and his voice is soft when he speaks next.

"Yes."

Aaro feels, very suddenly, tired. Tired of family, of duty and pride and friendship. He slouches forward a bit, his eyes studying the clasps of his vest.

He's told variations of what happened in the Wilds to many of his companions, but he knows for a fact that only Varric and the mage next to him know the whole thing, even second-hand, and it's kind of a relief not to have to pull up a façade or whip out a witty comment for the mage.

Anders has never made him feel like he has to.

"I'm sorry, Hawke."

In the face of such honest feeling, the eldest Hawke goes automatically rigid, scoffs; even when he knows Anders means to be gentle and heartfelt, the rogue isn't swayed by _sentiment_. Aaro scowls, his distaste with himself growing.

"Noted."

There's a dense silence that encompasses them, and Anders patiently rubs at a blot of ink on his thumb as he waits for something more to be said, exercising a virtuous patience Aaro has never seen before. The rogue downs another mouthful of whiskey before continuing with a small sigh, rubbing a calloused hand over his closed eyes as he frowns inwardly.

"…No, I…I'm sorry. I shouldn't be taking my anger out on you."

The mage shrugs, watching the knot of muscle in the eldest Hawke's throat bob with fascination before shaking his head.

"I'd rather it be me than someone else."

The rogue chuckles bitterly, taking another drink; the crystal carafe is almost empty, and he knows he should stop, but he's already pretty far gone, so why bother?

"I shouldn't be taking it out on _anyone_."

"You can't keep it in forever," Anders says softly, reaching out a tentative hand to stop the bottle from reaching Aaro's lips when he raises it again.

"Such stable advice, Anders," the rogue smirks back, and the heavy tones in his voice give way to something close to fondness, prying the mage's calloused fingers off his wrist. Instead of dropping Anders' hand however, he sets the bottle down on the edge of the cabinet and folds the blonde's fingers between his own tanner ones, spellbound by the contrast of their skin. A pink flush tints the mage's ears, but no one acknowledges it.

"Alright, so maybe I'm not the best example," Anders concludes with a yielding smile, Justice's scratching at his psyche forcefully pushed back down. The spirit is always there, but sometimes the mage can forget he's around, push his protests and thoughts aside in favor of what's right in front of him, and what's in front of him right now is…pretty nice, to be honest.

"Well, you're a pretty great example of…other things."

"Oh?" the Anders asks, an almost devilish grin twisting his lips. Aaro smiles back, nothing more than a soft curling of his lips; bad mood forgotten, he shifts to stand in front of the shorter man, personal space meaning nothing as their trained dance begins anew.

"Maybe I'll tell you about it another night," Aaro replies quietly, standing just too close but not close enough for the mage's liking, inviting but not challenging as he relaxes his shoulders.

Anders zeros in on the other man's lips, his eyes hooded as he watches them shape his undoing.

"I don't think I'd mind that."

They're nose to nose now, and Anders feels suddenly unsure of the practiced steps; it's one thing to follow the path they know and diverge when they feel comfortable, but now they're stumbling into uncharted territory, taking a trail neither of them has walked before…and that's dangerous. They flirt, almost relentlessly so, but Anders' resists the urges to go further out of pure, unadulterated fear. Not for his feelings alone; on the contrary, if it was only the mage and Aaro as they were, Anders knows he would have no reservations about going after Hawke. But he's Anders plus one, and Justice is bound to a single, guiding goal, and Aaro isn't it.

Anders doesn't want to hurt him. He really doesn't.

"Hawke-"

The darker haired man chuckles, and his breath ghosts over the mage's lips.

"I do have a name, Anders."

The blonde swallows, and he can feel Justice in the back of his mind, feebly trying to rope him back in. Maker knows he shouldn't let Hawke do this, shouldn't let him do something he might regret later, but—

The mage gasps as the rogue noses suddenly at the junction where his neck meets shoulder, and it takes all of his self restraint not to reach out and pull the other man flush against him. As if reading his mind, Aaro presses in closer, his hands skillfully seeking out the blonde's narrow hips and resting his thumbs in the loops of his belt. Feather light kisses dance up the mage's jugular to his earlobe, and Anders' gasps and clutches at the other man's shoulders, pushing so they're lined up perfectly, chest to chest, toe to toe. The rogue gives a stuttered sigh, and the mage shutters in response, wanting nothing more than to continue this beautiful fantasy, despite Justice's persistent calling at the fringe of his psyche.

"Aaro…I-"

Anders gasps again as the other man rocks against him, and the mage can't help but think it shouldn't feel this good-this maddening-when they're not even naked, for crying out loud.

Then, for some reason beyond the both of them, Anders pushes him away.

Aaro stumbles, bumping painfully into Ander's writing desk. The rogue's tanned cheeks are rosy, and a mix of pain, longing, and sorrow glaze his whiskey eyes. The mage's breath is raged and shallow, and he gives a shaky sigh, kicking himself mentally for being so forceful. He's about to offer an explanation when Aaro pushes off the desk and gathers up his knives, pausing awkwardly in front of the blonde.

"…I need to get some sleep. Thanks for…everything, Anders."

Quick as lightening, the other man is gone out the door, leaving a sheet of parchment on the desk in his wake. After an eternity of getting himself under control, the mage sighs haggardly and reaches for the paper, flipping it over in his hands to examine its contents. He's wholly unprepared for what he finds.

A simple sketch of a man slouched artistically over a stack of papers adorns the page. The details are modest, but the mage can tell at a glance it's supposed to be himself. The uncomplicated sentiment, captured in the few, delicate lines, is enough to send him reeling, and he lowers himself into his chair, staring at the paper till the dawn's light seeps under his clinic door.

.:;:.:;:.:;:.

He's woken by someone patting his cheek. The smell of rose water wafts comfortingly into his nose, and he opens his eyes to morning light and Orlesian silk slippers.

"Wake up, darling. Why are you on the library floor?"

Aaro groans softly and rolls off his side, the cold tiles of the study floor raising goose bumps across his broad shoulders. His stomach lurches unexpectedly, and it takes everything in him not to vomit on his mother's nightgown.

"…Were you at the Hanged Man last night? You reek of cheap spirits-Maker, you didn't make a scene, did you?"

He only grumbles inaudibly in response, really not caring about appearances or the Hanged Man at the moment. He ignores his mother's further ramblings as he swims through fragments of the night before; the taste of stall whiskey on his tongue, the feel of feathers against his check, a distinct musk only common to a certain mage he knows.

"Anders," he whispers, touching his cheek lightly with the pad of his thumb.

"-will the neighbors think, if you're trotting around in the middle of the night, drunk off your ass? You're going to grow up to be the black sheep of this family if you don't shape up. Drunkards are not, I repeat, _are not_ ideal matches for noble ladies-"

The man snorts, hoisting himself up onto an elbow. "Good thing I have no interest in the ladies, then, isn't it?"

"I beg pardon?"

Instead of answering, he sits up and rubs his face, his mother looking down at him with a simultaneously unenthusiastic and peeved glare. He squints up at her with a half-hearted smile and a tilt of his head, a hangover that feels sent by Andraste herself thrumming behind his eyes.

"Hi."

"Get up and take a _bath_."

He frowns as she turns and walks out of the study. The eldest Hawke sighs after a moment and follows her example, stumbling rather than walking as he enters the foyer and ascends the stairs to the bathroom. He knows he should feel ashamed for making his mother see him in such a state, but his mind is muddled enough to not care at the moment. He turns the tap and lets the water trickle into the wash basin before closing the door and striping himself of clothing, sinking up to his chin in the warm water.

Aaro thinks about the blonde mage in Darktown as he washes the grit and dirt off his cold, sore body. He wonders if he's made a mistake by being so forward; Anders certainly thought so. The rogue frowns as he remembers being pushed away into the writing desk, and his hand wanders to the achy bruise above his left buttock, poking it gingerly. He sighs as he washes his hair, and then dunks his face in the sudsy water, rubbing the sleep and circles off of his eyes as he thinks of an appropriate course of action.

He pulls the little stopper out of the drain and steps out of the bath, clean and naked in equal proportions as he pads across the floor and over to a cupboard full of towels. As he rubs himself dry with the coarse cotton fabric, he stops in front of the polished looking glass in the corner, his frown deepening subconsciously.

A handsome, relatively young face greets him on approach, a thin, pale scar on his chin jumping out from the glass in the dim light of the restroom. A week's worth of stubble adorns his jaw, and he rubs it thoughtfully with the palm of his hand before scratching his fingers back along his head, combing his short black hair off of his scalp. When he's done, he reaches for the worn wooden handle of his toothbrush, running it under cold water and scrubbing it along his teeth; as he brushes, he stares at himself in the mirror, thinking of bruises and whiskey and cat-loving mages.

The only way to find out the truth is to go to the source.

He pulls on a pair of loose leather trousers and a buttoned shirt, fitting a vest over the soft cotton material and adjusting his satchel on his shoulder. Aaro tugs on the well made boots Bethany had given him for his last birthday and steps out into Hightown, his daggers tucked neatly behind his back as he walks through the light rain into Lowtown.

Corff greets him as he steps into the Hanged Man.

"Isabela's in th' back with tha' dwarf, if tha's who you're looking for. Could I persuade ya into a pint before ya go?"

"Not right now, I'm afraid, but maybe later. We should be back before night fall, and drinks'll be on me."

The barkeep smiles and returns to polishing mugs as Aaro winds his way through patrons to the stairs leading to the back rooms. When he reaches the one rented to Varric, he stops short and leans, smiling, against the doorframe.

"Rivani, I despise you."

"Lies. All of 'em. You love me."

Varric crosses his arms across his bare chest, his duster, belt, and one of his boots sitting haphazardly in a pile on the table separating the two rogues. A deck of cards carves a path between the two, and by the looks of it, Isabela is winning whatever game they're playing.

"Of course I do, but not when you're trying to get me down to my smalls."

"I'd pay good coin to see that," Aaro chuckles, pushing off the door and entering the room.

"Wouldn't we all?" Isabela laughs huskily, tracing one of her daggers along a knick in the countertop.

"If that's the case, all you guys had to do was ask," Varric responds, slipping his boot off the table and back onto his foot before looking up at the other man. "We heading out, Hawke?"

"We're grabbing Anders first, and then heading after that dwarven merchant, Javaris. Supposedly, he's got his hands in all the wrong pots and it's going to get a lot of people killed."

He says it with an air of exasperation to which Isabela pouts, sauntering around the table to playfully pinch Aaro's cheek.

"Poor dear, playing someone's errand boy. Maker forbid someone ask you to do something _fun_ for a change."

Aaro pouts back, playing along with the charade much to the other rogue's amusement.

"I know. It's such a sad existence I lead. May I rest my head on your bosom? I wish to cry."

Isabela throws her head back and laughs, the sound seeming to echo even after they leave the bar.

.:;:.:;:.:;:.

He knows there's an issue when he finds himself flat on his back in the sand with neither of his daggers in sight. He tries to roll over onto his feet and finds himself bleeding out onto the ground, the blood turning the sand into a mucky, crimson mud; even as pain shoots through his waist, the color of his own undoing can't even compare to the thought of dying and leaving his mother behind, all by herself. He gurgles as if trying to call out, but the sound gets stuck in his throat.

Aaro struggles to roll onto his side, and that's when he sees him.

Anders, brave and strong, whacking this way and that, clears an arc straight through the unruly band of hirelings. It's five to one, and Aaro can't see either Varric or Isabela, but for some reason, he's not the least bit worried about the other man.

More than anything, he's down right mesmerized, his pain seeming like background noise as he watches on.

The mage calls down a lightning storm that seems Maker sent, and the reverberating cries of pain that erupt as the bolts find their targets is almost musical. One of the merc's rushes Anders, and mage simply and fluidly side steps him, turning in a full circle to smash the blunt end of his staff into the back of the other man's head. It's such a beautifully chaotic dance that, even as faint as he is, the rogue is almost taken aback when Anders' staff is kicked out of his grasp. A jolt of panic courses through Aaro for the first time since the beginning of the fight as he watches Ander, stunned and weaponless, back away right into the rock face.

Aaro spits blood and saliva out onto the ground and pats at his waist hurriedly, searching for his pocket knife when Anders grabs the mercenary by his face and shoots out a jet of flame from his hand. The rogue squints at the suddenly intense light, the hireling screaming in utter horror and agony as the fire engulfs his head; when Anders pulls away, there's nothing more than a smoking stump on the thug's shoulders, and the remaining mercenaries hiss and yap in terror as they flee the battlefield.

The mage slumps against the boulder behind him in exhaustion as the body falls back, limp and charred, into the sand. The quiet rustle of the sea floats up to take the place of the noise of battle, and Aaro feels the calm wash over him, his thoughts feverish as he watches the blood ooze out of his wounds. For a moment, he feels like he could die and it really actually would be okay.

Anders doesn't give him the pleasure.

"Hawke? Aaro?" the mage murmurs, falling down next to him with his hands glowing a bright blue.

"Ribs, sparkle fingers. They got me in the ribs."

The mage gives a huff that's caught between relief and disdain before he moves to unbuckle the clasps of Aaro's vest, moving the ruined leather aside to look at the wound under his ripped cotton shirt; the roué coughs He presses his fingers gingerly to the edges of the wound, and the rogue groans in pain, feeling one of his ribs move uncomfortably at the touch.

"Broken rib, punctured lung, blood loss…" Anders lists off, his hands glowing more intensely as he leans in closer to place his palms flat against the wound.

"Oh baby, tell me more," Aaro hisses with equal parts sarcasm and suffering, his eyes prickling unexpectedly as he feels his rib shift back into a normal position. As the pain ebbs away and flesh mends with flesh, he can feel the gentle warmth of Anders' hands through his ruined clothes, feel the beads of perspiration from the mage's palms. He looks up from his place, lying in the other man's lap, and studies the lines of the mage's brow as he concentrates to heal him.

When the blonde opens his eyes to glance at him, he finds himself unexpectedly drowning in Aaro's gaze, the same mix of emotions coloring his expression from the night before. Anders shuts his eyes as quick as he can, but it takes all of his willpower not to lose his focus.

"I'm done," he says after a moment, and he's about to pull his hands away when the rogue grasps them, holding them tight against his chest. Anders can feel Aaro's blood dry between their palms before the rogue clears his throat and speaks.

"About last night…I shouldn't have jumped you like that. I…apologize," Aaro whispers, toying with one of the mage's index fingers. Anders swallows and nods, a small smile crawling onto his lips.

"How's your arse?"

The rogue laughs, pulling his hands away; the mage misses the contact almost instantly.

"Bruised, but I'll live. You're…a lot stronger than I thought."

Anders doesn't know how to respond to that, so he smiles wider and simply says, "I get that lot."

The rogue smiles back, and they sit like that for a moment, lost to the world; Aaro has the urge to reach up and kiss him, but he resists. Anders is so much more than something to toy with, and he wants the other man to know that before he tries anything again.

Instead, Aaro clears his throat and averts his eyes, sitting up cautiously before glancing at the mage and chuckling.

"What?" the other man asks, bemused, and the rogue just shakes his head, reaching out a calloused thumb to wipe a speck of blood off the blonde's cheek.

"You got red on you."

Before Anders can respond, the rogue stands up and brushes himself off. Aaro looks around, squints up at the blazing sun, and then picks up Anders' discarded staff, handing it over with a small smirk before starting off down the path in search of Isabela and Varric without another word.

.:;:.:;:.:;:.

That night, after they save the day and make a visit to the docks, Anders stays up late in his clinic, scribbling in his manifesto. He writes long into the night, Justice urging him to get a full page written and revise another paragraph he'd left unfinished. By the time he finishes, he's tired, rubbing a hand over his pinched, worn eyes as he stifles yawns. He drifts off for a moment, and when he opens his eyes again, Aaro's sketch catches his attention from its place propped up against one of the various books on his desk.

Justice, now louder that he's not muffled by drowsiness, raises a protest; he's so demanding that it causes an ache in the back of the man's skull, but the mage pushes it away, reaching for the small paper to look at it again. He runs a finger over the fine lines and smiles fondly as the spirit inside him churns with anger and resentment.

Anders looks at the drawing till each line is committed to memory, and then leans over and blows the lantern out, manifesto forgotten in the memory of whiskey colored eyes and calloused hands.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

_(URGH BLARGH MAN DUDE. DX I swear, the next chapter will be better than this-this…mish-mash of sexual tension and Justice and bad jokes. I swear. Cross my heart and hope to die. It also marks the beginning of the ANGST-fest, so you've been warned. XD_

_Anyway, I hope you guys liked it. 13 pages in Microsoft Word, like damn. D:_

_Incase you were wondering, I did make a few references throughout this chapter._

"_Justice doesn't let me get drunk anymore. I kind of miss it." – Anders says this, in-game, outside the Hanged Man._

"_May I rest my head on your bosom? I wish to cry." – I mirrored this off a line Zevran says to Wynne in DA:O. I'm not that witty, sorry._

"_You've got red on you." – A famous line from _Shaun of the Dead_. Maker knows I love that movie._

_Again, thank you for taking a look; keep a look out for the next chapter in a week or so. Kisses! ~ RforRebel_

_Songs: "Love Lockdown" – Kanye West and "Maps" – Yeah Yeah Yeahs)_


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